


Home For Now

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Bottom Sam, Comeplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant/Top Dean, Finger Sucking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sam, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam might be away at Stanford, but there's still one thing only Dean can take care of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/gifts).



> This is a much-belated charity fic for the lovely firesign10. I'm sorry it got so angsty, this seems to be my life lately. But it still has knotting!

_Please hurry_

 

Dean picks his phone up and rubs a hand over his neck as he reads the text from Sam. Tucson to Palo Alto isn't the worst drive he's ever done in one stretch but Sam isn't making it any easier.

 

_Driving as fast as I can. Drink water._

 

Dean tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and pulls out of the Hess station. The sun blazes overhead, brighter than it has any business being on a late October afternoon. Dean wishes he could blame it for the heat creeping up his neck with every mile he drives, but Dean knows better than that.

 

Hard to believe it had been six months already. Sam's out of his dorm, moved into some cheaper place off-campus with two of his douchey college friends. Even when he'd had the single room, Sam had always insisted on a motel for this. Dean likes to think it's out of nostalgia, rather than the good common sense of keeping Sam's business his own from any curious coeds.

 

It's not like Dean's asked outright, but he's pretty sure Sam's been passing for beta since he moved on up in the world. If he was just fucking girls they wouldn't know the difference, not like Dean had asked that, either.

 

The wind whipping past his open window makes the air smell like burnt asphalt and that grit-salt tinge the desert always carries with it. He's got a radar-tempting two hours until he gets to the Palo Alto Comfort Lodge but Dean can swear he already smells it.

 

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean mutters under his breath, squinting into the sunlight and running a hand through his hair. It's messy from the open window and a hasty night's sleep, not that Sam will care. Or even notice.

 

The radio offers up Old Country, New Country, and Mexican Country. Dean sticks with the first, shifting in his seat as Hank Williams warbles on about being so lonesome he could cry.

 

Dean has always believed in the zen of the open road, the endless roll of the highway beneath him and the sky above big enough to eat up any problem he faced. Sam's not a problem, not really, nothing Dean can't fix if he could just get there faster. Dean's always been able to fix it.

 

Dean flies past the signs for Santa Cruz, staying in the left lane as a bead of sweat works its way between his shoulder blades. He doesn't need to look in the rearview to know that his face will be flushed, his freckles standing out in relief as his blood courses hot through his veins. It's not even that warm out, not for fall. It only gets worse as more asphalt disappears beneath him.

 

The Old Country station has morphed into Classic Rock, the tinny sound of Cinderella almost drowning out the burr of Dean's teeth grinding together. He shoulders onto the exit ramp with an audible groan, risking a palm ground against the ache in his groin as he makes the second left turn. He can't even imagine how Sam must feel.

 

Dean had always known when it was coming, before they had words for it like heat and hormone cycles. Sam had started to smell different, shedding that baby-soft milk musk for something that made Dean sweat and shiver in the bed next to him. Made him ache, swollen fit to burst and biting his lip to stave off the sin of it the first time Sam had wriggled in next to him.

 

Dean hits a red light and curses a blue streak, dragging his palm up and down the steering wheel just to feel the catch of pebbled leather. The sun's down to half-mast, an orange glow bathing his shoulders and catching on the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. Dean licks them off and growls in his throat, darting his eyes back and forth to make sure no one's gonna see him cup his dick through his jeans.

 

The best part, the part that had swept any of Dean's reservations under the cigarette-burned carpet of that motel room in Des Moines all those years back, was that Dean could fix it. Dean could take it away, soothe that empty ache that made Sam toss and turn all night, sweat-soaked with a fever that needed feeding and Sam was starving for Dean.

 

“Take care of you, baby,” Dean murmurs through the clench of his teeth, flying through the light a full second before it hits green. Two more turns and he's crunching the gravel underneath a humming red “Vacancy” sign. Dean feels a twitch behind his balls as he throws the car into park, slamming the door without locking it and staggering towards the stairs. If anyone is stupid enough to steal the car, Dean will find him soon enough.

 

The teal-painted metal of the balcony feels cold under Dean's hand, sliding slick as he climbs the concrete stairs and follows the ascending numbers to 217. Dean had been chanting that number since Phoenix, when his phone had picked up service and five messages from Sam.

 

The hollow-core door resonates as Dean smacks his palm against it, the “1” swinging slightly from its single screw. His mouth runs dry as he rests his hand against the wood, biting his lip and letting his nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. Dean doesn't even have a great nose as far as alphas go, as his father is fond of reminding him. But he'd know Sam is in there if he were underwater and unconscious. Dean's getting hard just standing there, shifting his legs together as he draws his hand back to pound on the door again.

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean's hand stops in mid-air as Sam throws the door open, his splayed fingers curling into a fist as Sam rushes at him. His t-shirt is soaked in sweat, ringed at the neck and hanging loose against Sam's chest. Sam crashes into him, hips rocking up to rub against Dean as his hands dig into Dean's denim shirt. Sam's mouth hangs open and panting, his lips dragging against the two-day stubble on Dean's jaw. Dean sways back with the force of it, because Sam gets bigger every time Dean sees him.

 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean mutters, grinding his teeth together and setting his hands on Sam's shoulders. “Gotta get inside, c'mon.” It's as much a reminder to himself as an order for Sam, who lets himself stumble back over the threshold as Dean moves forward.

 

In another universe, this should smell awful to Dean, this fleabag motel room heavy with the scent of his baby brother's sweat-soaked sheets and spunk-filled towels, but it just makes Dean's head spin. He kicks the door shut with his heel and lets out a sigh as Sam immediately backs him up against it.

 

The back of Dean's head hits the door with an empty thud as Sam buries his nose in the sweat-laced arch of Dean's neck. Each open-mouthed exhale from Sam's mouth makes Dean's skin prickle and sing, the grazing points of contact lighting him up as Sam presses hard against him. Sam's dick nudges into his hip, hard and insistent like Dean couldn't smell the desperation coming off him in waves.

 

These had been Dean's sweatpants once, before he'd skinned both the knees out and sawed them off into shorts. Dean's fingers catch against the worn-out waist band as he slides his hand down Sam's back, their skin catching tacky together.

 

Dean swallows, hard, Sam's lips grazing over the bob of his alpha's apple and breathing hot against him. Sam's hips rut mindlessly against him, his ass flexing under Dean's roving hand to grind against him. Wet fabric sticks to Dean's knuckles, making Dean's nostrils flare. His eyes roll back at the scent of Sam's heat, cloying and hot against the cold sweat on Sam's skin. Sam whimpers, soft enough that Dean can feel it more than hear it.

 

The door creaks as Sam humps against him in earnest, both of them groaning as Dean digs his fingers into the meat of Sam's ass and moves his hips that extra inch. Sam isn't the only one with an aching hard-on, and Dean bares his teeth as Sam's cock rubs his own through the seam of his jeans. Sam moans and mouths at Dean's neck, his hands clinging white-knuckled to their hold on his shirt. Sam will rub himself off just like this if Dean lets him, come in his shorts like he's 13 instead of 19.

 

Sam doesn't need to come, though. God only knows how many times he has already, how many wrung-out loads of jizz are seeped into his skin and further ruining the motel sheets. Dean growls, rumble-soft in his chest as he thinks of Sammy, skin stretched bare on his borrowed bed as he fists his cock and waits.

 

Sam's hair is damp where Dean's fingers curl into it, longer than it was last time and Dean will never admit it but he loves the bangs. Sam blinks, eyes black and barely focused as he lets Dean pull his head back.

 

“Miss me?” Dean can't help it, the satisfaction that curls around his gut at the pathetic whine Sam lets out. Dean's missed him just as much, more even as the weeks had turned into months and Dean had grit his teeth, furious at the taunting thought that Sam had found some other knot to see him through his heat.

 

“God, Dean,” Sam slurs, eyes closing back as he opens his mouth and fights the clench of Dean's fingers to lean in for a kiss. Dean's waiting for it, lips parted for the wet press of Sam's tongue, sloppy and searching. Sam's lips are chapped, licked raw from nerves and that thing Sam does with his tongue when he comes. Dean's lips nip gently at the swell of Sam's bottom lip as he pictures it. Sam doesn't need to come, not as badly as he needs Dean.

 

“Take my shirt off.” Dean steps forward, bearing his weight against Sam until he stumbles back. Dean peels Sam's fingers from their grip on his overshirt, smiling at the dazed look on Sam's face. Sam's chest rises and falls, his fingers unsteady as he hooks them under the worn hem of his own t-shirt.

 

“Hey,” Dean barks, shaking his head as he cups Sam's chin in the palm of his hand. “I said take _my_ shirt off.” He squeezes, his thumb and index finger digging into the delicate flesh under Sam's jaw. Sam's eyes gleam back at him, pools of gold-rimmed black that visibly relax as Dean holds him firm and sure.

 

“That's it,” Dean croons, nodding with approval as Sam fumbles with the white buttons of his shirt. “Just do what I tell you, Sammy.”

 

The air feels cool, dry against Dean's skin as Sam strips his shirts off. They fall in a heap by the door as Dean presses his bare chest against Sam, feeling damp sweat and the muffled heat of Sam's body close against him. The scratch of Sam's nails down his back makes Dean growl as he kisses Sam, Sam's mouth open and wet for him like a taste of what's to come.

 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean mutters, curling one hand into Sam's hair while the other slides over the cleft of Sam's ass through his shorts. The old cotton is soaked through, slick seeping onto Dean's fingers as he presses against the wet spot darkening the seat of his shorts. “So fucking wet for me, aren't you.”

 

Dean kicks his boots off as he backs Sam up against the bed, kicking them aside as he presses Sam in for another kiss. Dean's cock throbs against the confines of his jeans, the tell-tale tightening at the base starting to make his skin hum. He grips Sam's hair a little tighter and digs his hand into the meat of Sam's ass, molding them together so Sam can feel the hard jut of Dean's cock waiting for him.

 

The frayed hem of Sam's shorts bunches up under Dean's fingers, the material gathering into a roll as Dean exposes enough skin to reach around and run his fingers through the slick mess. Sam groans and arches back into it, just to groan again and rut forward to grind against Dean's cock like his body can't decide which way it wants to go. Dean decides for him, pressing his thigh between Sam's legs as he ghosts the tip of his finger over Sam's leaking hole.

 

“Need it bad, don't you?” Dean's voice is husky already, catching on the last syllable as he sinks his index finger in to the knuckle. Nothing should feel this good, Sam's muscles clinging around him like a plea. Sam moans and throws his head back, his voice reedy as he tries to fuck himself back onto Dean's hand. “Dean, c'mon.”

 

“Take your shirt off, now,” Dean husks, releasing his hold on Sam's hair and licking his lips as Sam manages to catch the hem of his shirt on the third try. He tugs it over his head and tosses it aside, leaving his hair in disarray and his chest bare for Dean. Dean rewards him with a soft kiss and the hard press of two fingers into Sam's slick hole.

 

“My pants aren't gonna take themselves off, Sammy.” Dean draws his fingers back, the slick lines of Sam's arousal webbing between them. Sam huffs a breath against Dean's lips, his eyes fluttering back open as he scrabbles for Dean's belt buckle. The leather pulls out with a soft whoosh and a muffled clink as it hits the floor.

 

Sam's hands shake as they tug fruitlessly at the button of Dean's fly. He leans his forehead against Dean's shoulder, his back hunched down as he grunts his frustration and finally manages to pop it open. His skin burns against Dean's, fever hot and sweat-slick and Dean isn't cruel. He slides his hands under Sam's, carefully pulling his zipper down and pushing his waistband down around his thighs.

 

Dean cups his palm over the back of Sam's hand, guiding him to press against the hot swell of Dean's dick. A wet spot that would put a silver dollar to shame darkens the front of his boxer briefs, growing again as Sam groans with need and artlessly grinds his hand down. His body jerks awkwardly as he tries to seek too many points of contact at once, licking a stripe up Dean's neck and jutting his hips forward. Sam barely knows which way is up when he's like this, and Dean knows he's prolonging it but it's the only way he can get Sam where he needs to be.

 

“Look at me.” Dean nods as Sam blinks his eyes open, as focused as they can be as he stares balefully at Dean. Sam's lips part easily as Dean runs his fingers over them, trailing Sam's slick across spit-cracked skin. Sam's tongue darts out to chase it, curling around the tips of Dean's fingers as he presses them inside. Sam's eyes roll back and it's enough, it's all Dean can stand as he breathes deep and moans Sam's name like it's a curse and a promise and all the other things Sam isn't supposed to be.

 

Sam's shorts slip off him easily, the hook of Dean's free hand all it takes to slide them over the swell of Sam's ass. Dean would laugh at the sight of Sam's dick single-handedly holding them up like a valiant circus tent if it weren't so goddamn hot. Sam's wet because his body needs a knot, but his dick is throbbing hard and slapping free against his belly because he wants Dean, because Sam can run and he can hide but he can't lie, not now. Dean presses his fingers in past the knuckle, savoring the graze of Sam's teeth as he gives Sam's cock a rough tug.

 

Dean kicks his jeans off, cursing the tight fit as he digs his hand into Sam's hip for support. Sam sways and grabs Dean at the waist, ready to fall back and spread his legs and Dean wants it, God, wants to look Sam in the face and watch the slant of his eyes as he comes on Dean's knot. Another fat pulse of precome pearls up at the head of Dean's cock, swiping wet against the elastic of his boxers as he tugs them down with one hasty hand. His balls cup heavy over the bunched fabric, the air running chill against the wet tip of his dick before he molds his body back against Sam's, back where it belongs.

 

Sam pulls him onto the bed like an inexorable force, arms clinging and mouth sucking at Dean's fingers and Dean doesn't even try to resist. It always comes back to this, the push and pull of the two of them together. Dean draws his fingers, spit-strung wet and shining from Sam's mouth and kisses him, his back curling over Sam. Dean manages to shove his boxers down another inch before he hisses at the wet glide of his cock against Sam's hole as Sam's thighs draw up to bracket Dean's waist.

 

Dean knows he'll have the next two days to get his mouth on Sam, to flip him over and lick him open and taste him till he's drowning in it, but it doesn't quell the surge of guilt Dean feels as the head of his dick nudges against Sam's slicked-open hole. He should get Sam off, make him feel good and let him know that Dean isn't just here to take but it's too late. Sam needs it and this is all Dean has to give him now, blindly breaching his body and swallowing every moan Sam makes.

 

“I got you, I'm here.” Dean presses in slowly, hooking a hand behind Sam's knee to spread him open further, Dean's to take and fix and fill and fuck it's good. Sam's mouth is sweet and warm but Dean has to look, see it for himself as he rears back and marvels at the slick stretch of Sam's hole around him, perfect pink and pulling him tighter. There are nights when this is Dean's only pleasure, this sweat-flushed memory of Sam unfurled beneath him.

 

The steady throb of Dean's knot starts to ache, ready to go if Dean lets it but he's not ready, not before he can pull Sam down and snap his hips flush and steady. Sam's eyes narrow to slits and his mouth hangs slack, grunting filthy with each thrust and screaming Dean's name as a spit-slicked palm wraps around his dick. Dean jacks him fast and rough, thrust and pull back and forth timed through clenched teeth so Sam can't do anything but feel. Dean fights the swell of his knot with a growl and a deft twist of his wrist as Sam's back arches up and his neck strains corded red. Dean's not tying them off until he can taste Sam's come in his mouth.

 

He should have gotten behind Sam before this but there's no way Dean's missing the look on Sam's face, the way his tongue curls out between his clenched lips and his eyes go wide. It takes everything Dean has to fight the clenching pull of Sam's muscles as Sam shoots over his clenched fist, streaking his belly and hitting his chin. It's too close, both of them muffling screams as Dean pulls out just in time, the burgeoning width of his knot catching against Sam's rim. He scrambles to roll Sam on his side, barely managing to throw Sam's leg to the side and collapse behind him before he presses back in.

 

“Dean, fuck,” Sam growls, gasping as Dean gives one last push. Sam's hole stretches to take him, so tight Dean doesn't breathe until he feels it give and close around him. Dean wraps his arm over Sam's shoulder, licking over Sam's skin to taste the sweet-salt remnants of Sam's come on his knuckles. Open-mouthed and buried deep, Dean comes hard and wet, his vision white-rimmed and fuzzy despite his determination to keep his eyes open and catch every glimpse of Sam's blissed-out face.

 

“So fucking good, Sammy, Christ,” Dean mumbles, words slurred and thick as wave after wave of it rolls over him and fills Sam up. Sam goes lax and soft against him as Dean empties himself, his breath hitching with each twitch of his knot. Dean mouths up the curve of his neck, burying his nose in Sam's hair and pulling Sam tight against him, happy he had the foresight to get them spooned together before they were stuck like this for an hour. Sam's back presses against his chest, close and warm with every heavy breath they take.

 

“Why can't you just, fuck, Sammy.” Dean's head swims, Sam's scent all over him silencing the static in his head like nothing else can. “Can't you just come home. Could be like this, just us, all the time, Sammy.” Dean knows he's babbling, the tight rein he keeps on his thoughts let loose as he shudders into Sam and forgets the million good reasons it has to be like this. “I miss you.”

 

Sam stirs against him, craning his neck back and swallowing with an audible click. “Miss you, too, Dean.” Dean's name trails off into one long sound as Sam snuggles back against him, his lips smacking open as he starts to snore softly. Dean smiles, brushing his lips under Sam's jaw and sighing. Sam always passes out after sex, and the soft echo of his snores against the dingy motel room walls are the closest thing Dean has to home for now.

 

Dean closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the back of Sam's neck, waiting to slip free so he can take care of Sam again.

 

 


End file.
